The Wistful Silence
The ledger showed forty-three nights of deviation, a column of red ink that stretched down the page like a wound that refused to close. Elias Thorne ran his thumb over the entry for the previous evening, the paper rough and worn at the edges, feeling the dry friction of the ink against his skin. He was a constable of Oakhaven, a role that had once meant the weight of a badge and the warmth of a...
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